


The Best Man

by st_crispins



Series: The St. Crispin's Day Society [14]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, POV First Person, Sexual Content, St. Crispin's Day Society universe, The Pursang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Solo acquired his sailboat, The Pursang: When it comes to sexual matters, who is truly "the best man"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Man

****Somewhere in Paris. 1964. ********

As I remember it, it all began with a discussion of who were the best lovers in the world. Gabrielle Dantès, who had owned and managed one of the better _maisons des passe_ of the Montmartre for almost twenty years and therefore had a handle on the subject (so to speak), maintained that Frenchmen were vastly overrated. Predictably, Carlo Fabrizi was quick to concur and nominated his own countrymen for the honor. After giving the matter more consideration than it deserved, Napoleon said he thought generalizations were impossible and that all men should be judged individually.

I said nothing. I was hoping that no one would expect me to volunteer an opinion, and for awhile, no one did.

It was just small talk, really --- one of those aimless, after-dinner conversations to pass the time. At least at first. The affair was over, brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Our preliminary report was filed. The Old Man even sounded pleased, which doesn't happen very often, I can tell you. Napoleon and I were scheduled to catch the 10 a.m. flight back to New York the next morning.

And so now, the twelve of us --- Gabrielle, eight of her eleven _femme a pàssions_ and Carlo, who'd helped us on the mission --- were sitting around a grotesquely oversized table, toying with the remains of our meal. The dinner --- medallions of veal served in a berry sauce with fresh noodles --- had been wonderful. Gabrielle's new chef was clearly an artist. Everything else about the house, however, was a horror.

I have never particularly liked brothels. I've visited my share but I've always found them uncomfortable. The atmosphere is akin to a wake at which everyone avoids viewing the corpse. Attempts at sociality are artificial and forced. The prostitutes act like morticians, gently conducting the male guests, most of whom feel awkward and nervous and try their best to deny or ignore the real reason they're there.

Still, it's easy to understand the men's anxieties. A brothel is feminine territory, after all, not unlike a convent in many ways. The girls often exchange conspiratorial smiles and whisper among themselves when your back is turned, giving the impression that they know something you don't.

And perhaps, they do.

There's also a lush, stifling theatricality about the best establishments that tends to set my teeth on edge. Gabrielle's, with all the draperies and chandeliers, rococo furniture and oriental accents (she had a definite mania for cloisonné), looked like something a Hollywood filmmaker might dream up. I suppose that even after living in the West for so many years, deliberate decadence on a grand scale still offends my moral sensibilities. To paraphrase the jingle, you can take the Marxist out of Russia but . . .

My partner was not similarly affected, of course. During the week of our stakeout, he'd made himself right at home at Gabrielle's, bantering with the girls, complimenting them, noticing the smallest adjustments they made in their hair and wardrobe from day to day.

Sometimes --- if I believed in reincarnation, that is --- I could swear that Napoleon must have been a woman in some past life. Certainly, if the Buddhists have it right, he will be one in the next, though I don't know whether it will be a punishment for the liberties he's taken, or a reward.

Needless to say, Napoleon was enjoying the evening. Surrounded by women in provocatively-cut evening clothes, a glass of Dom Perignon at his elbow and a Gauloise smoldering between his fingertips, he sat back with the heavy-lidded contentment of an addict in an opium den and listened while Carlo made his rebuttal.

"Judge the individual, eh? That's a typically American response," Carlo announced to the girls who sat on his side of the table. Some of them giggled. Some merely smiled and nodded politely. Carlo laughed, reveling in the attention at Napoleon's expense.

To his credit, my friend remained outwardly unconcerned, though I knew by the way he methodically sipped his champagne that he was merely biding his time. All week it'd been like this. Evidently, Carlo did not consider me much of a rival, and I'm not ashamed to admit that any injury to my masculine pride was far outweighed by my profound sense of relief. Napoleon was not quite so fortunate.

With his racing cars, his show horses, and his Fabrizi money, Carlo was accustomed to having the available women all to himself. He was good looking in a beefy, muscular way --- black-eyed and full-lipped, a sort of young Victor Mature --- but he was also what the Italians call a " _fusto_ ," a man whose dress and manner are dictated by his hormones.

Maneuvering around this French henhouse, Carlo regarded my partner as a rival cock in every sense of the word, and he postured and swaggered, baiting Napoleon with friendly, double-edged jokes. For his part, Napoleon offered gentlemanly riposts whenever he could and swallowed the rest of it for the sake of the mission, but I could see that my friend was nursing a slow, murderous burn. When the revenge came, it would be terrible and humiliating and total.

"What do Russians think about sex?" Carlo was asking as he tried to reclaim my attention.

"We try not to think about it at all," I replied. "Our apartments are too crowded, our street corners are too cold, and no one but Western tourists may check into the hotels. If we do manage to find a willing partner, there is no place to take her. So, we only go to bed with our wives, and then, only for the purpose of producing fine, strong workers to advance our glorious revolution."

My self-deprecating humor had the desired effect. Carlo said something about Russia being the land of romantics, of Tolstoy, and Pasternak, but he'd obviously lost interest in me and turned back to his preferred sparring partner for another round.

"Americans know how to make cowboy movies, hamburgers and good kitchen appliances," he declared derisively, switching to French, for the benefit of the others present. "What could they possibly know about making love?"

"Enough," Napoleon responded softly, also in French. "For instance, we know that a dick is like a white flag in a foxhole. When the other guy has to thrust it out and wave it around, it means he's outclassed, outgunned, or out of ammunition."

There's an expression in Italian: _far secco qualcuno_. Literally translated it means "to leave someone dry." That is, to surprise someone so completely with a cutting remark, that it dries up his saliva, leaving him speechless. I'll wager it came to Carlo's mind as he blinked at Napoleon, his face otherwise immobile, too stunned to deliver a comeback of his own. All the girls around us were howling.

Then, slowly, as if he'd suddenly become aware of the laughter, the color flushed into Carlo's cheeks, and Napoleon smiled. I knew that smile and I knew what Carlo was thinking --- that he wanted to ram his fist down Napoleon's throat and rip his lungs out --- because there'd been several occasions when I'd seen that smile and thought the same thing. I've always been able to resist the impulse, but I wasn't quite so certain that Carlo could exercise a similar amount of self-control.

Apparently, he could. After a moment, he reined in his Roman temper, and sputtered, "I shall take that as a personal insult, Signor." He spoke in a stilted, formal Italian, probably because he was excited and it sounded more impressive.

Napoleon shrugged and mumbled something to the effect that if the shoe fit . . . or the Italian equivalent, much to the delight of Gabrielle and her girls, who understood a bit of the language.

"Such an insult cannot go unchallenged," Carlo added, recovering a shred of his lost dignity. Napoleon leaned back in his chair and took a long, deep draw on the Gauloise.

"What do you suggest?" he asked coolly in French again, squinting through the smoke. "Swords? Pistols at fifty paces?"

Carlo blanched. He might have been a jackass, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that Napoleon could best him with anything he chose --- and kill him, too, if so inclined. Desperately, Carlo glanced from one girl to another and then all at once, he was struck with an idea. You could see it dawning on his boyish face.

"No, no weapons. Perhaps, something more . . . appropriate." He allowed himself a smug, self-satisfied grin, and his voice dropped to a purr as he said, "Napoleono, tell me: how many women can you make love to in a single night?"

Actually, instead of "make love", he used the term, " _baiser_ ", which translates in English to a coarse four letter word. There was no doubt about it: the gloves were coming off.

"How many do you have?" Napoleon replied simply.

Carlo gestured around the table. "There are nine here and three more in the house ---."

"--- Leave me out of this," Gabrielle said quickly.

Napoleon laughed, under his breath. "Eleven, then. Well, that'll take care of my evening. Do you intend to go out into the streets and recruit a few dates of your own, or will you just amuse yourself alone in the parlor?"

The jab drew blood, but Carlo was too caught up in the momentum of the idea to stop now, so he chose to ignore it. "Perhaps we can share, eh? What is the word in English? We shall, um . . .rotate."

Fine, I thought to myself, do that. Somehow, I knew I was going to be the one who ended up in the parlor.

"It will be a kind of duel, yes?" Carlo continued. Napoleon shrugged again and said that was all right with him if the ladies were agreeable. There were titters and nods all around. I suppose the novelty of two men competing for their affections appealed to the girls, although Gabrielle herself, was not as amused. She pointed out that she had a business to run and had been closed five nights already.

"And generously paid for the inconvenience," Napoleon reminded her. U.N.C.L.E. had reimbursed Gabrielle some forty thousand francs each night.

"Then the loser will pay you the same," Carlo said. He turned to Napoleon. "And he will also pay another forty thousand to the winner."

"Make it fifty thousand to each," Napoleon said and Carlo agreed. The bet was 100,000 francs. They shook hands on it.

As Gabrielle withdrew, appeased, I felt my stomach turn over. At the going rate of exchange, they were talking about some twenty thousand American dollars.

There was no reason to remind Napoleon of that fact, of course. I was certain he was fully aware of the risk and probably reveling in it. I kept my mouth shut, though I wondered where he intended to come up with that kind of money, if or when he lost. My friend has many virtues, but thrift is not among them.

"We'll have to set some rules," Napoleon said as he finished his champagne. He sounded nonchalant --- too nonchalant for me. There was that familiar undertone, insinuating and fraudulently genial, that made me prick up my ears. Napoleon always sounds that way when he is trying to manipulate someone to his own purpose. More often than not, he succeeds.

"Rules?" Carlo asked.

"Why, of course." Napoleon was all innocence now. "Every game requires --- _rules_." The word came out like a soft hiss. "For instance, we'll need a time limit."

"What would you suggest?" Carlo said. Napoleon checked his watch. "Well, it's almost eight now. Let's say seven o'clock tomorrow morning, shall we?"

Carlo sniggered back. "Eleven hours? Isn't that too long a time?"

Napoleon tilted his head to one side and when he scanned the faces around the table, there was a twinkle in his eye. "Not unless you wish to treat these charming young ladies like brood mares," he said. "Remember, this isn't your stud farm, Carlo. We must consider our companions' sensibilities, if they're to respect us in the morning. Eleven hours for eleven encounters seems decent enough to me."

Gabrielle's girls all smiled appreciatively. Carlo could see it was a losing battle and surrendered.

"Very well," he said, "but I will propose another rule. Both of us must come every single time."

"Oh, I fully intend to," Napoleon answered, winking at a petite blond named Véronique, who sat beside him. She offered him a secretive smile in return. Without taking his eyes off her, Napoleon said to Carlo,

"And each of the ladies must come, too. Every single time."

"What?" Carlo exclaimed. He rose several inches off the seat of his chair. "La Madonna, that is ridiculous! How can one prove such a thing?"

" _T'en fais pas, mon cher_ ," Gabrielle said with a careless flick of her hand. "Don't worry, darling. We shall be unbiased and scrupulously honest. Will we not?"

She looked to the others for support and the entire sisterhood murmured reassurances, almost in unison. They were obviously intrigued by the proposal and eager to see it through.

"Don't you trust us, Carlo?" the one named Yvette mewed plaintively. At that moment, even a mildly doubtful response would have seemed downright churlish. This was no time to vacillate. The air was thick with so much sexual tension, it hung over the room, like a fog. Poor Carlo had no choice and once more, unhappily, he surrendered. He and Napoleon shook hands again and Gabrielle volunteered to keep score.

"And may the best man win," she added. She stood up to signal an end to the preliminaries. It was ten minutes to eight.

Now, I would be the first to concede that Napoleon's strategy had been brilliant thus far. More than brilliant. Genius, even. The extended time frame, the insistence on counting the girls' climaxes --- a masterful stroke, that --- the way he'd orchestrated the mood of the table, forcing Carlo to accept a set of rules structured in his favor. He'd covered the angles, manuevered himself into the most advantageous position possible.

And still I worried. Well, why not? Wouldn't you with twenty thousand dollars at stake?

Rather foolishly, Carlo downed the rest of his glass of champagne and poured himself another. Then he repaired to the rabbit warren of bedrooms above, heading to the left, down the hall. I saw Napoleon pop two pills of concentrated caffeine to counteract the effects of his own alcoholic intake, but I doubted he needed them. The adrenalin was pumping full tilt.

As he climbed the staircase, following Véronique, who was in the lead, I pursued him. "Napoleon," I said, keeping my voice low, "do you realize you've just wagered an entire year's salary?"

"I'm sure I can find a way to spend it," he replied. "I've always wanted a sailboat." Véronique reached out and caught his hand in hers as we hit the top of the stairs and turned right.

"Carlo's in excellent shape," I pointed out, taking a new tack. "He drives racing cars. He's younger than you, too."

"So I noticed," he said.

I reminded him that we had a plane to catch in the morning. "It'll all be over before breakfast, one way or the other," he said.

We halted just outside the bedroom door, at the end of the hallway. Napoleon wrapped an arm around Véronique and grinned at me. "I appreciate the concern, Illya, really," he said. "But this is just something I have to do. Pride and all that. Okay?"

I nodded, resigned. "It's going to be an awfully long night," I added, knowing it was useless.

"I took a nap this afternoon," he assured me, with a laugh.

And then Véronique was opening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, impatiently drawing him back, into the room. The last words I heard were, "don't worry," just before the door closed.

He was right, of course, I told myself as I retreated to the parlor. I had no reason to be so anxious. It wasn't my money. It wasn't my ego on the line. Besides, there'd been plenty of times in the past when there'd been more than mere dollars riding on Napoleon's sexual prowess. Like our lives. Like the fate of the world.

To put in bluntly, he'd gotten it up under the worst pressures, in the worst possible circumstances. Indeed, the danger only heightened the excitement. He didn't just thrive on risk. He seemed to require it.

That was probably the reason he'd escalated the stakes tonight, I realized. It was the one sure way he knew to win the bet. Sad, really, when you think about it.

I did a lot of thinking that night. God knows, there was little else to do in that parlor. There were no books, much less a library. The only reading material available were a few tattered fashion magazines. Gabrielle offered me the use of an unoccupied guestroom, but I was too anxious to sleep. So, I sat on one of those hideous baroque sofas and thought.

I thought about a lot of things. About Napoleon. About our partnership. My friend is like a hurricane turned inside out, an intense, furious eye surrounded by a deceptively self-possessed calm.

He pities me my solitary nature, I know, but to tell you the truth --- and I would never say this to his face, not ever --- I pity him. He has so much hunger, so many needs. I try to sympathize. I know what it's like to go hungry, but an empty belly can be filled, while a psychic hunger can devour you up in return, like a cancer. To always want, to always crave so much more than life can possibly give. It's like being in a constant state of arousal with no hope of being satisfied. It must be terrible.

The night progressed. Occasionally, the girls floated by to talk or flirt, hinting that they might be willing to do more if I just said the word, which I was sorely tempted to do. However, I also felt an obligation to stay on duty --- I mean, what if the Old Man called, for heaven's sake? --- so I kept a polite distance. Eventually, the girls gave up, no doubt deciding that I was homosexual --- an automatic reflex for some women when you don't respond to them like a buck in season --- and I ceased to be an object of their curiosity.

Since there was no steady stream of guests to manage, Gabrielle took the opportunity to catch up on her bookkeeping, working at an elaborate secretaire in the corner of the parlor. She was stunning and still in her prime, with a enviable figure and flawless skin, but she had that brittle, almost fragile quality that is so often found in women long in both her profession and ours.

During the frequent breaks in her work, we shared a pot of tea and reminiscences of the war --- she'd lived in Paris during the Occupation --- and listened with shameless interest to the sounds of activity above us. It was impossible not to hear it. The house was old and hardly soundproof.

The right side, Napoleon's side, occasionally echoed with laughter and murmured conversation. Sometime around midnight, when he was with Jocelyn, I think, someone turned on an old Victrola. And as strains of Edith Piaf drifted down through the rafters, I heard the floorboards creak rhythmically overhead and I knew they were slow-dancing.

The left side of the house was quite another matter. After the third hour or so, a pall of silence fell over it, punctuated only by abrupt bursts of vigorous, determined thumping. To be perfectly honest, it reminded me of an earnest recruit doing pushups at boot camp.

The turnover of the girls became increasing erratic, too. Some would climb the staircase to Carlo's room and return in fifteen minutes. Others stayed well past the appointed hour. Some were even called back once or twice, and Gabrielle had a devil of a time keeping it all straight.

By two o' clock, it was apparent that Carlo was in trouble, though I don't know whether it was his enthusiasm or something else that was flagging. A request to double up the girls was sent down, but Gabrielle, playing the role of referee, stuck to a strict interpretation of the rules and wouldn't allow it.

Meanwhile, the girls traveling along the right side of the staircase continued to appear and disappear with almost clockwork precision. They often halted on the steps as they passed, to smile or laugh or exchange a few words. I wondered if they were merely being friendly or actually comparing notes, but their manner made it clear that whatever they said to each other, was not for my ears. However, a tall girl named Marguerite, paused on her way to the kitchen for a snack and commented off-handedly, "Your friend --- he is _très sympathique_."

This was about three in the morning. At the moment, Napoleon was in the shower with Helena (the ancient plumbing was clanking loudly all over the house) either for a change of pace or simply because he needed a shower.

Feigning disinterest, I inquired casually what she meant. Marguerite smiled and said, "He asked me what I wished to do. No one has ever asked me that."

A redhead named Félicité, who was with her, agreed. "It was like a first date," she said coyly, "only without the ignorance."

And so, without hearing the specifics, I understood what was going on. It may seem ludicrous to romance a prostitute, even futile, but that was exactly what Napoleon was doing. He was giving them the one thing these cynical, world-weary women still cherished: their girlhoods --- either ones they could only vaguely remember, or ones they never had. It's times like this that I envy my friend's ability to touch other people, even while I regret the appetite that drives it.

"It will make no difference to me," Thérèse said in English, after overhearing our exchange. "I did not climax with Carlo and I will not climax with your friend. They will be forced to renegotiate the agreement. I do not give myself that way to men I do not love, and I haven't met one worthy of love in a very long time. "

"A heart kept safe within a vest pocket becomes small to accommodate the space," I replied, quoting a Georgian poet whose work I'd read, when I was young.

"So does a cock," she shot back.

I took no offense. Thérèse spoke that way to everyone, though her appearance belied her manner. She had the face of a child, round and sweet, with large eyes and a bow-shaped mouth. Her hair was soft and brown and cascaded down her back, ending in tiny ringlets. Despite her abrasiveness, of all the girls, I liked her most of all.

She plucked a Gauloise from the laminated cigarette box and waited for me to light it. Then, taking a drag, she examined me for a moment and said, "So: tell me, _mon cher lapin_ , what is it like to be married?"

I said that I wouldn't know.

"But you wear a ring," she declared, gesturing to my hand as I replaced the lighter.

I had no intention of telling her about my mother and my family, Masha and her father, so I simply said, "It has no meaning."

Which was, in some sense, the truth.

"--- At least, not anymore," she said, finishing aloud my unspoken thought. She sat down on the sofa next to me, listlessly drawing on the cigarette and exhaling long streams of smoke.

"Ah, you are like all the others," she sighed, although not with the same degree of contempt as before. "All men wish to be loved. And when they discover they are not, they are wounded. _Quelle barbe_! I am so very tired of it."

She seemed not so much bitter as indifferent, numb, which I knew from experience, can be even worse. I've struggled with the same feelings myself.

"They say that love is a relative term," I said, quoting my poet again. "And hard to resist --- like a wildflower in bloom."

"Flowers die when you pick them," she said.

"They would die anyway. At least you have them for awhile. And afterward, there is _razbliuto,_ the memory of what once was --- like dried petals pressed between the pages of a book."

She eyed me curiously and asked if I was certain that I'd never been married. I didn't give her an answer. She didn't expect one. Instead, I pointed out that my profession, like hers depended on seduction and false intimacy. Some of us, I said, become enamored with --- even addicted --- to the lies, while others determinedly resolve never to be seduced themselves. I told her that there was a fine line between stoicism and callousness, professional detachment and emotional narcosis, and that if you construct a shell too tough, too impervious, you might find yourself withering within.

I told her she was too intelligent, too beautiful to suffer such a fate. "Besides," I said, "one can never cross a field without picking a wildflower or two."

That made her smile. She stubbed out her cigarette and rose to leave. But before she did, she kissed me lightly on the cheek and said, "I shall remember this conversation."

I don't know when Thérèse's turn with Napoleon came. I dozed off on the couch soon after our talk. It was well after four.

Sometime around eight, I awoke to the smell of coffee and frying eggs. Carlo was on his way out when I met him in the hall. Like the rest of the house that morning, his mood was considerably subdued. He managed a few brusque parting words and left, never mentioning the bet.

I wandered back to the kitchen. Gabrielle was sitting at the head of a small lacquered table, counting out a pile of franc notes. Napoleon was beside her, fully dressed and halfway through breakfast. He looked tired but also extremely pleased with himself. It wasn't necessary to ask who'd won.

I hurried through my own breakfast and changed into a fresh set of clothes. A taxi was waiting as I came down the stairs. None of the girls were up and about, but Gabrielle promised to give them our best. We arrived at the airport with barely ten minutes to spare.

There'd been no time to talk. However, once the plane was aloft and the seat belt warning lights were shut off, Napoleon reached into his breast pocket. He fanned open his wallet and began to thumb through the thick wad of bills.

"Half of this is yours," he said. "I owe you for Thérèse ."

Before I could ask for an explanation, he gave me one of sorts. "I don't know what you said to her last night, Illya, but --- well, whatever it was, if you hadn't spoken to her, Carlo might have had an excuse to call the whole thing off. I'd never have won the money."

It was a generous offer, but I couldn't accept it, and I told him so. Certainly, he'd earned the ten thousand dollars --- all of it.

"Buy the sailboat," I said.

Which, of course, he did and named it _Pursang_ , the French word for "thoroughbred," as an inside joke.

Napoleon protested for awhile, but I remained firm and eventually, he gave up.

"Okay," he agreed, finally. I can still hear him muttering as he settled back into his seat. "But you might be interested to know that when she came, she said your name."

And with that, he turned slightly, toward the window, closed his eyes, and fell fast asleep.

I couldn't stop smiling the entire flight home.

 


End file.
